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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25023625">The Boredom of Aziraphale</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aethelflaed/pseuds/Aethelflaed'>Aethelflaed</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>ILL OMENS: The Quarantine Fics [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Awake The Snake, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Cognitive Dissonance, Crowley Awakens, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Takes a Nap (Good Omens), Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), Dialogue Heavy, Happy Ending, Hugs, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Post-Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, Sleepy Cuddles, Stress Baking, i don't want to spoil it but, wake the snake</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 07:22:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>15,846</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25023625</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aethelflaed/pseuds/Aethelflaed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After five weeks in quarantine, Aziraphale breaks down and calls Crowley - only to develop an affliction that has never affected him before.</p><p>Aziraphale is bored. And his mind is full of thoughts he's sure don't belong.</p><p>Can Crowley help cure him of this tragic condition before settling in for his two-month nap? Without...*breaking the rules*?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>ILL OMENS: The Quarantine Fics [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1707424</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>65</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>193</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Aspec-friendly Good Omens</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This was originally meant to be posted back in May, but I couldn't decide on an ending! Then my alarm went off, the snek woke up, and I realized I knew where it had to go. Sadly, not QUITE posted before midnight UK time, but enjoy on the first of July - Crowley's wake-up day - my take on the lead-up to his nap!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“You know, I could…hunker down at your place. Slither over and watch you eat cake. I could bring a bottle of…a case of…something…drinkable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This was it. The moment Aziraphale had been waiting for. A few little hints, a delightful story or two about pastries, and Crowley was offering to forget about their agreed-upon show of solidarity with the humans. All Aziraphale had to say was yes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not even that, he just had to say </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything but no.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>His heart and lungs contracted in a panic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I-I-I-I’m afraid that would be breaking all the rules,” he gibbered, suddenly trembling as the walls of the bookshop closed in around him. What in the name of humanity was he </span>
  <em>
    <span>thinking?</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Out of the question. I’ll see you…” his voice nearly broke but he forced it down, “…when this is over…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right.” Crowley sounded disappointed. “I’m setting the alarm clock for July.” Aziraphale nodded glumly. He half expected to hear a sudden, angry disconnection. He didn’t think you could slam a mobile phone, but Crowley would certainly try. Instead came a soft, simple, “Goodnight, Angel.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The line went dead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale clutched the handset a moment longer, then set it down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stupid, stupid idea,” Aziraphale grumbled, stirring sugar, flour, milk and cream over medium heat. It had taken a little experimentation to work out where </span>
  <em>
    <span>medium </span>
  </em>
  <span>heat was on a gas stove, but after a month he had a rough idea.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We agreed. We </span>
  <em>
    <span>agreed</span>
  </em>
  <span> that we would keep to the lockdown as long as the humans did. What was I </span>
  <em>
    <span>thinking,</span>
  </em>
  <span> calling him?” He’d managed to avoid it for five weeks – rather longer than they’d expected the lockdown to last – telling himself it was because Crowley would inevitably tempt him to break the rules.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Turns out Crowley wasn’t the only one who missed temptations.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oooh, never mind!” He spooned out a measure of hot frosting and let it drip back into the pot. It looked nice and thick. “This is clearly best for everyone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Turning off the flame, he lifted the metal pot and tipped it over a glass bowl. It had not, at any point, occurred to Aziraphale that he would need to wear oven mitts to do this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It can’t go on that much longer. Humans are impatient.” He watched as the frosting slowly flowed down into the bowl. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Angels</span>
  </em>
  <span> could be as patient as the stars themselves. “They’ll all go stir crazy, begging for any excuse to step out.” He grabbed a spoon to scrape out the last bits from the bottom of the pot. “And – and – and greedy! Any day now, they’ll start sending people back to work regardless of…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Was he actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>hoping</span>
  </em>
  <span> for the humans to be irresponsible?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somehow, this was Crowley’s bad influence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finished scraping and set the pot back on the stove to cool.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Point is, it’s just a few weeks. Weeks! I’ll barely have time to finish my third cookbook.” He pressed the plastic wrap over the top of the frosting, returning to the recipe. “Leave to cool…</span>
  <em>
    <span>overnight?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He really should read these more closely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale looked longingly at the other ingredients spread out across the counter before him. “No. Obviously, this is the perfect example. I can wait. What’s one night?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taking a deep breath, he walked across the shop and settled into his armchair, running a finger down the stack of smooth leather spines. What was he in the mood for tonight? Perhaps some nice, light poetry. He tugged the book free and opened it with a sigh, leaning back into cushions that molded around his body like a familiar embrace.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Goodnight, Angel.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He slammed the book down and jumped to his feet. With a wave of his fingers, the frosting was cool.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Slither over and watch you eat cake.</span>
  </em>
  <span> The cheek!” He turned on the oven and started greasing and dusting the cake pans furiously. “What does that mean, </span>
  <em>
    <span>watch you eat cake?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Is that a </span>
  <em>
    <span>euphemism?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He slammed each of the three pans onto the stove as he finished it, then started measuring out his dry ingredients. Flour. Cornstarch. Baking soda. Baking powder. Salt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’d just be in the way, lounging on the sofa, criticising. What </span>
  <em>
    <span>else</span>
  </em>
  <span> does he ever do?” A few quick stirs saw everything blended nicely. He started scooping out pistachios from a jar. “Point is, I don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>need</span>
  </em>
  <span> Crowley here. I don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> Crowley here. This is fine. It’s fine! Everything is fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glanced at the recipe. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Purée pistachios in food processor…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Well. Humanity hadn’t always had fancy food processing technology.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale poured the nuts into a small bowl, picked up a pestle, and slammed it in, smashing and grinding the pistachios until they were powder. He worked up a bit of a sweat, but it felt extremely satisfying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he mixed the purée into the dry ingredients, Aziraphale had to admit: he </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> miss Crowley. There had been something so </span>
  <em>
    <span>nice</span>
  </em>
  <span> about hearing his voice again. Nicer than he’d really expected, all things considered, and now he couldn’t get it out of his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Every time he stopped moving, stopped thinking, for just a few seconds, he heard it again and…ooh…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He threw the butter into a bowl, whipping it by hand. Next came the sugar, the egg, the vanilla, a flurry of activity, until everything was light and fluffy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He set it all aside and rested his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Goodnight, Angel.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>No, no, no.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grabbed the milk and started combining everything in stages. “Stop being an inconsistent fool, Aziraphale. You had a chance to invite him over. If you were just going to be a mess about it, why did you turn him down?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t have an answer to that. But the sudden idea of Crowley, sitting in his space for goodness-knows-how-long, no reason to leave, no reason to ever stop talking to him, stop looking at him –</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His chest went alarmingly tight again, and he very nearly dropped the rest of the batter on the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, no, he certainly couldn’t have Crowley here. He had to stick to the </span>
  <em>
    <span>rules.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>That was the thing about baking. Rules. Follow each step as you were supposed to, and the end result came out perfect. No need for creativity or improvisation. No place for sudden panics to come in and make a mess of things. He whipped the egg whites and cream tartar together until it formed soft peaks and added that to the batter, folding it together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perfect.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale poured the batter into the pans. “Now. No more of this…nonsense. Let’s just make a nice treat and settle in for a lovely evening.” Never mind the poetry. He had a very tempting regency romance novel he’d uncovered on a back shelf a few weeks ago, and he’d been saving it. Tonight seemed a splendid opportunity.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Three pans slid into the oven, and he shut the door with a snap. Right. Half an hour and then he’d be ready to frost it. He poured himself a glass of wine and sat down at the table with his book to wait.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Goodnight, Angel.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>blast.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright you lot. Just because I’m going to be sleeping doesn’t mean it’s some sort of holiday for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He surveyed the row of plants assembled before him, vibrantly green and trembling slightly. Everywhere his gaze landed, stems stretched a little straighter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley ran his fingers quickly through his awkwardly long hair. He hated </span>
  <em>
    <span>growing it out.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Oh, he liked it long. Liked it short, too, but that bloody in-between phase…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d leave that to grow for two months. Not the facial hair, though; the less said about his last attempt in the 70s, the better.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No yellowing. No leaf spots,” he continued, walking slowly down the line, row upon row of tall tropical plants with waxy leaves shining in the early evening light. “And absolutely none of that wilting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Each pot had a small notecard in front of it, exact measurements and details. He flicked his finger against one. “And I don’t just want you to maintain. This is growing season, and I want to see you </span>
  <em>
    <span>grow.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>A young fiddle-leaf fig tree seemed to edge away from him. Crowley tugged on its stem, pulling it back in place. “That includes you. Don’t think I won’t cut you down and start again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned back to survey the room at large, hands at his hips. “When I wake up, I will be </span>
  <em>
    <span>measuring,</span>
  </em>
  <span> and I will be </span>
  <em>
    <span>counting leaves.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Whichever of you disappoints me the most…” He let the threat hang in the air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A bloom of pale pink flowers over bright green leaves caught his eye, back on the counter by the plant mister. Crowley leaned close to the flowering kalanchoe, and the tiny succulent shook in its own miniature earthquake. “I don’t want to hear </span>
  <em>
    <span>any</span>
  </em>
  <span> excuses about the amount of sunlight. It’s been a long bloody winter, and I expect a long spring bloom or—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His phone rang in the other room – the old one, hooked up to the ansaphone, not the smart phone in his pocket. That either meant a telemarketer or…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t think this is over,” he growled, pointing a threatening gesture to the plants before hurrying off to the study.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is it now?” Crowley’s voice snapped across the line.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello. It’s me,” Aziraphale said, as cheerfully as he could. The handset was clutched between his shoulder and head, leaving his hands free to slowly stir the butter and cream cheese into the frosting, a few grams at a time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know it’s you,” the voice on the line grumbled. “I told you, I’m going to sleep.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You said two days,” Aziraphale reminded him, trying to keep the motions of the spoon steady. Perhaps he should get one of those fancy modern electric mixers after all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> said you wanted to wait until it was all over.” The bitterness made Aziraphale cringe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just…well…I…” Once again, he had Crowley on the line, and not the first idea of what to say. He mixed in the honey and vanilla and stirred faster. “That is, after our…prior…discussion…Wel, I just…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aziraphale,” Crowley sighed, clearly forcing himself to calm down. “Tell me what you want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The angel stared at the first layer of pistachio cake, waiting on the plate for frosting. He glanced around the shop at the piles upon piles of baked goods. More than he could eat. More than </span>
  <em>
    <span>anyone</span>
  </em>
  <span> could eat. And they just kept growing and growing, as he cooked more and more and more…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t…I don’t know what I want…” He found himself blinking back tears. “Oh, never mind. You just…just go have a good lie-down, Crowley, while I –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“N-nh. Something’s wrong.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What? That’s ridiculous. Nothing is wrong.” He quickly scooped up the frosting and began spreading it rapidly across the cake. “Why on earth would – the only thing </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong</span>
  </em>
  <span> is that the banoffee pie recipe is far more complicated than it needs to be and thus I’m going to be forced to spend tomorrow making some absurd substitute. Probably banana cream pie, I suppose that isn’t too bad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then why are you calling me? It’s only been an hour.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I…I just…” The knife slammed against the table. “I don’t know what you did, Crowley, but it isn’t funny!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This ought to be good. What am I meant to have done now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know! That’s the point!” He clutched the phone firmly. “But I was perfectly happy baking away in my shop until I spoke to </span>
  <em>
    <span>you,</span>
  </em>
  <span> and now I-I-I-I can’t think, I can’t focus, everything seems to take far too long, I stare at a book but I can’t remember the words I just read – it’s horrible and I hate it!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a few seconds, he thought Crowley had hung up, until the line was filled with disbelieving laughter. “You’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>bored,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Angel!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good lord,” Aziraphale gasped. “I must have caught it from you. Make it stop!” Crowley just laughed harder. “I’m serious, Crowley, if this is another of your…ill-conceived </span>
  <em>
    <span>pranks…”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, nothing like that, honest.” Aziraphale heard him take a shuddering breath. “Nope, this is all on you, Angel. Congratulations. Enjoy the rest of the lockdown.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Crowley, don’t you dare hang up! This is simply impossible! I’ve never once been </span>
  <em>
    <span>bored,</span>
  </em>
  <span> not in six thousand years!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, you haven’t?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Certainly not. Angels do not </span>
  <em>
    <span>get</span>
  </em>
  <span> bored.” He picked up the second layer of the cake, placing it gently atop the first, and began to frost it. “We are not temporal beings, and therefore aren’t bound by –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t try that nonsense with me. I’m not a temporal being, either, and I get bored all the time.” A strangely heavy pause. “Look. Aziraphale. The offer still stands. I can come over and we can be bored together. Which is not nearly as bad as being bored alone. I’ve got this sitcom you might like. I’ll explain the jokes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale’s hand trembled, the knife wavering just enough to pierce the centre of the cake. He quickly pulled it free and checked the damage. Not ruined, but he should pile on extra frosting, just to be safe. “I told you, no, Crowley. That’s…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Against the rules, I know. But if even you’re getting cabin fever –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” He picked up the last cake and quickly placed it on top. The sooner this was finished, the better. “Just tell me how to stop being bored so I can get on with my life.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Euh, yeah, about that.” Crowley sighed. “Look, if I knew the cure to boredom, well, I wouldn’t be </span>
  <em>
    <span>bored,</span>
  </em>
  <span> now would I?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But…are you saying…this is permanent?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, not exactly. It sort of…comes and goes. Like hiccups. One moment you have it the next, gone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>get</span>
  </em>
  <span> hiccups.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look, worst case, just go to sleep. Usually does it for me: take a nap, mind’s clear in the morning.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I don’t –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know, you don’t sleep. I can see the pattern here.” Crowley blew out a breath, thinking. Aziraphale could imagine him, raking fingers through his hair or rubbing his jaw. “Alright, you just need to find something different to do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well.” He started spreading a thin layer of frosting along the sides of the cake. The thicker, more elaborate decoration would come later, when the crumb coat had had a chance to set. “I suppose I could spend tomorrow making tarts instead…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No-no-no-no. Not…something </span>
  <em>
    <span>other</span>
  </em>
  <span> than baking. Or reading, I know you’ve been doing that. Something completely different.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Er, I can…wash some dishes?” He glanced at the sink. They had been piling up rather badly, as happens when you can always just miracle in more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mh, might be a good idea to start, but no. You need something you can lose yourself in. Like the baking. Only, not baking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m afraid you’ve lost me.” Aziraphale picked up the cake plate and slid it into the refrigerator.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well. Uh. Didn’t you once say you can play music?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I…did study the lyre, I suppose. Briefly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine, try that again. Better yet, some completely different instrument. Or…nnnn…” He could practically </span>
  <em>
    <span>hear</span>
  </em>
  <span> Crowley pacing. “I don’t know. Did you ever do…embroidery?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I loathe it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Try it again anyway. Look, I don’t know, Angel.” Now he could imagine Crowley sprawling out across that ridiculous throne. “Make a list of everything you’ve ever done as a hobby and try them all. Find something that makes you happy like baking did, then keep doing that until you get bored. And repeat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And that will work?” Aziraphale started scooping frosting into a piping bag.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s what I did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I’m making plans to sleep for two months, so no, I guess, it didn’t work. But you’re usually pretty good at keeping yourself occupied. Probably just need to snap yourself out of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale sank into a kitchen chair. The shop seemed so empty, with just him and the endless cakes. Not that he wanted customers back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that he had the first idea what he wanted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re probably right,” he said as brightly as he could manage. “Snap myself out of it. Just the thing I need. I’ll get right on that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, Angel. You have fun.” Another sigh. “I’ll see you in a few months.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right-o. Toodle-pip. And all that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale hung up the phone, and started digging around for a pen and paper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One did not enter into a two-month nap lightly. There were </span>
  <em>
    <span>things</span>
  </em>
  <span> to take care of first.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>First, the practical considerations. Getting the plants in line. Changing the sheets. Making sure all the curtains were in place so he didn’t get woken up by a random bit of sunlight four weeks in. Boring stuff.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After that, it was just a question of getting into the right mindset, starting with a nice, long soak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hot water jets thrummed as steam filled the bathroom air. Crowley tossed in his bath bombs: Lavender, Silk Rose and…hmmm…Black Raspberry Vanilla. It might be overwhelming to a human, but to his nose it was like a symphony of flowers and fruits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just needed to find the rubber duck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was pulling it off the linen cupboard shelf – as well as a few more bath towels, of course – when his mobile started buzzing, vibrating so hard it slid into the bowl of the sink. At least the call forwarding was working now. He picked it up, switching on speakerphone, and dropped his glasses on the counter. “This better be </span>
  <em>
    <span>good.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello. This is Aziraphale –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Angel, who </span>
  <em>
    <span>else</span>
  </em>
  <span> is it going to be?” He folded his arms across his bare chest and leaned against the tile wall, fighting back the first wave of annoyance. He supposed it couldn’t hurt to steam for a bit before diving in. It’d be like Ancient Rome, a city he had </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> mixed feelings about, but he couldn’t deny the quality of the baths. “What is it this time?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I’ve made my list.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Great. Do you need me to proofread it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not exactly. You see, there’s only five items on it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Five items? You spent all night on this, and you came up with </span>
  <em>
    <span>five</span>
  </em>
  <span> things you enjoy doing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, no. I started with </span>
  <em>
    <span>music</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>embroidery,</span>
  </em>
  <span> but those were your suggestions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Holding in a groan, Crowley carried the mobile over to the side of the tub. He tossed the rubber duck in, watching the smug little bastard float around in the suds and oils, then settled himself on the edge, adjusting the black towel around his waist. “Alright. Let’s hear the rest.”</span>
</p><p><span>“Well, after much consideration, I came up with: </span><em><span>creating a manuscript,</span></em> <em><span>candle dipping</span></em><span> and er…</span><em><span>doing my taxes.”</span></em></p><p>
  <span>“You</span>
  <em>
    <span> enjoy</span>
  </em>
  <span> doing your taxes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. Well, no, not as such, but…well, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am</span>
  </em>
  <span> very good at it.” He could hear a pen clatter to the table. “Oh, I know, yours are much </span>
  <em>
    <span>better</span>
  </em>
  <span> than mine. I can’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>think</span>
  </em>
  <span> of anything!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aziraphale.” Crowley scrubbed his hand across his eyes. “Are you…did you call me up to ask </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span> what you enjoy doing? That’s…I literally </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> do this for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Crowley! You have no idea how awful this night was. Just staring at a piece of paper for hours and hours, it was a complete nightmare. And I didn’t snap out of it at all!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With one last longing look at the bubbling water, Crowley stood up and began to pace. “No, of course not. You need to relax.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only I can’t relax! And now I can’t eat, either, my stomach feels very peculiar and after I spent simply ages on this lovely three-layer pistachio cake!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley knew what he had to suggest and it made him miserable to even say it out loud. “Have you tried…practising your magic act?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh!” For a second, the sheer joy in Aziraphale’s voice was completely worth it. But he could hear it deflate almost immediately. “No, it’s no good, I don’t have an audience.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s why I said </span>
  <em>
    <span>practise.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Maybe teach yourself a new trick.” His eyes widened in panic. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Not</span>
  </em>
  <span> with handcuffs, don’t try anything with handcuffs. Or locking yourself in a chest!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose I could…do some sleight of hand…” He was mumbling, and Crowley could just picture the way he would tug at his sleeves and frown.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it that important to inflict your display on witnesses?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s just…I miss having…the </span>
  <em>
    <span>energy</span>
  </em>
  <span> of the audience.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So far as Crowley knew, the most receptive audience Aziraphale ever had was a dozen pensioners who slept through the entire thing. He couldn’t imagine what sort of </span>
  <em>
    <span>energy </span>
  </em>
  <span>that provided that he couldn’t get from inanimate objects. “I can…shout awful things over the phone at you if you like.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh would you? That’s ever so kind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll be right back! Don’t go anywhere.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A clattering noise, but not a disconnection.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aziraphale? Are you there?” Silence, with some distant hint of movement. “I’m not – Angel, I’m not going to stand here waiting for…eugh.” Snarling, Crowley ended the call. He thought about tossing the mobile back onto his bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But…he </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> offered…and if it got Aziraphale out of his strange mood…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a groan, Crowley set the mobile on the small shelf at the edge of the tub. No </span>
  <em>
    <span>Golden Girls</span>
  </em>
  <span> this time, it seemed, but he supposed he could make the most of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By a miracle, the water was still the perfect temperature when he slipped in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale hurried back to the table, feeling the excitement bubble up inside him. Of course! Why hadn’t he thought of this? He had come up with several new tricks since Warlock’s birthday, variations on old favourites that he thought added a bit of pizzazz. Some of them took advantage of his angelic strengths, and he was sure Crowley would approve.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dropping his magic supplies next to the telephone, he put on his slightly top-heavy top hat and grabbed the handset. “Right. I’m ready to – Crowley? Crowley! Where did you go?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The line, it appeared, was dead. His heart fluttered in his chest, and he quickly redialed, fingers shaking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yuh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Crowley? It’s me again. I don’t know how the call got dropped.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do.” A strange noise, a sort of…thick rushing. “Don’t worry about it. Just hurry up and do your worst.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is that – are you outside?” He pulled off the top hat and made sure Jerry the Rabbit was safely tucked in the new compartment. “I swear I can hear wind or something. You told me you were planning to stay in!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not important. What’s the plan? You going to describe your tricks to me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course not. A magician does not reveal his secrets.” He waved a hand over the hat. “You’ll just have to imagine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I really don’t think –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you ready for me to </span>
  <em>
    <span>razzle-dazzle</span>
  </em>
  <span> you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nnnh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That didn’t sound very enthusiastic, but it was Crowley after all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right. Now, I have here, young jackanape –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No one says </span>
  <em>
    <span>jackanape,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Aziraphale. Update your lingo, I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>begging</span>
  </em>
  <span> you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you insist. I have here, young fellow-me-lad…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Urgh,” Crowley groaned, followed by a sound like someone blowing into a milkshake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That isn’t helpful, you know. Will you just let me proceed? Crowley?” No response. “Crowley!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What? I’m right here. Just, is it the coin or the cards?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Neither. It’s the rabbit in my hat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aziraphale! Let that poor creature out!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you take me for? It’s my practice rabbit.” He popped open the compartment and reached inside. “He’s entirely artificial, so there’s no danger of…oh…” Somehow, Jerry the Rabbit had been squashed rather flat. The velveteen ear pulled off completely, spilling stuffing everywhere.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s dead, isn’t it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. That is - it was never alive.” He shook the hat upside-down, allowing the tattered remains of the toy to fall free. “Oh, dear. I think I made the hat compartment too small.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Isn’t the rabbit supposed to be under the table?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, it’s more impressive this way.” Or it should be. He nudged the pile of soft cotton. His attempt to create a comfortable pocket dimension inside the hat had clearly failed.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Buck up, old boy,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he told himself firmly, and turned the cheerful buoyancy back up again. “Never mind. For my next trick, I’ll need a volunteer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is this a mind reading trick? Because if it isn’t, you’re going to have some trouble.” Something on the other end of the line squeaked. “And if it is, I think you’ve already failed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Blast.” Perhaps he should have thought this through a bit more. That was the trouble these days. Rushing in, making a fool of himself. “Could you perhaps </span>
  <em>
    <span>pretend </span>
  </em>
  <span>to pick a card?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh. Right. Got one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good.” Aziraphale began shuffling the deck. He skipped most of the patter this time, concentrating on flicking the cards from one hand to the other. It almost worked, though half a dozen wound up piled atop his shoes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you doing anything over there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, now please concentrate. Hold that card in your mind. Picture it perfectly.” With one last dramatic flourish, all the cards shot across the room except one. “Is…</span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> your card?” Silence. “Oh, er, right. It’s the…uh…oh, dear. It appears to be the instructions to a game of poker.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wow, that’s exactly what I had pictured!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“…no.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale tossed the last card aside, and looked glumly at the coins. “This was a foolish idea.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A little.” The noise this time was distinctly that of water splashing about. “I suppose it was worth –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Crowley, are you…are you at a </span>
  <em>
    <span>beach</span>
  </em>
  <span> somewhere?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“…yes?” Another slow splash. “Oh, alright. I’m…I’m in the bathtub.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A flush of heat began somewhere in Aziraphale’s stomach and surged up to his face. He dropped the handset and scrambled back. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Crowley!</span>
  </em>
  <span> Why didn’t –” He picked it back up and held it gingerly, with two fingers, as far from his face as he could. “Why didn’t you say anything?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eh, well, you were really determined and, um, I thought you could use a distraction.” At least he had the good grace to sound embarrassed about his deception. “Oi, what are upset about? You’ve seen me in a bath. You’ve </span>
  <em>
    <span>been</span>
  </em>
  <span> me in a bath.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. But. That was. We weren’t.” Somehow the casual, impersonal nudity of a Roman bathhouse was one thing, and Crowley soaking in that enormous tub in his flat with possibly some candles and scented soaps and just enough space for another being to slide in across from him with their feet and legs brushing under the water was </span>
  <em>
    <span>entirely different.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Besides when I was, er, you, I wasn’t…I didn’t…you know…</span>
  <em>
    <span>strip.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Not entirely.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh. That explains, um…things.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What things?” Oh dear, now an entirely new and different panic was welling up inside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing! I didn’t. Um.” Another slosh followed by the bubbling noise, and Aziraphale tried not to imagine Crowley submerging himself entirely in the tub. Tried very, very hard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look, I can see this is not a good time for you…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Honestly, Angel, it’s not a big deal,” though all evidence suggested that it was in fact quite a big deal. He cleared his throat. “I just. It’s part of my routine. Getting ready for my nap.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Routine? I thought you just went to sleep.” Aziraphale had taken a nap once. After over an hour of trying, he’d managed to doze for almost twenty minutes. He’d felt it was very well done.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean, yeah, </span>
  <em>
    <span>technically</span>
  </em>
  <span> I do. But when I want to have a proper lie-in, I like to set it up. Get myself relaxed first. Wait,” Another surge of water. Was he sitting up? Getting out of the tub? Aziraphale focused very hard on his glittering stage coins. “That’s exactly what you need now!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A bath?” He’d never considered that before. There </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> a clawfoot tub somewhere upstairs, in what was supposed to be the shop owner’s flat. He’d converted most of it for storage, but the bathroom was likely still functional.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. Well. Maybe. Bath. Wine. I don’t know. Meditation? Groom your wings? Something. Set up a routine, spend the whole day on it if you like. That should help you relax.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like a spa day, only at home.” It did sound nice. Aziraphale imagined himself manicuring his own nails, perhaps trying some colour. Crowley had bought him a few bottles, and there was a sparkling blue-green that looked very appealing. “I suppose I could, er…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now he was imagining Crowley applying the varnish, and it was causing no end of cardiac distress.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You alright, Angel? Your voice went a little funny there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale twisted the cord on the telephone. For a few moments he </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> managed to forget his predicament, but it was clearly no better than before. He was still flustered, panicked and very far from relaxed. “I. I suppose. Yes. I think that sounds like a splendid idea. I don’t think I’ve had a proper bath in, well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>ages.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> His own tub would be only large enough for himself, though he supposed there could be room for a second body, lying back against the first, sharp angles enveloped in his arms and </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh, bother, there it is again.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good. Great. You do that. Now if you’ll excuse me, I was in the middle of something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh. Of course. Er. I’ll talk to you later.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Much</span>
  </em>
  <span> later,” Crowley growled, and the line went silent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale dropped the handset as if it were on fire, then just stared at the phone, entirely new (though not entirely unwelcome) thoughts invading his mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Crowley finally emerged from the tub, every muscle in his body felt relaxed and rubbery. He was a little light-headed, but that was entirely the point. He wrapped up in a thick terrycloth robe (black with an embroidered red snake) and headed to the kitchen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Next thing he needed was food.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley was always a light eater – merely picking at a plate while Aziraphale truly indulged – but a good, filling meal really helped him settle down for a long sleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He opened the sleek silver refrigerator, as always filled to the brim with every food imaginable. A whole Sunday roast, he thought, would </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> hit the spot. Lamb in mint sauce. With carrots and potatoes, maybe some parsnips. Oh, was that Yorkshire pudding? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Excellent.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Not exactly gourmet, but it seemed like just the thing. He loaded up a plate and popped it into the stove to warm up. Two minutes ought to do it, didn’t want the meat going dry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He held his mobile in his hand, tapping his foot, waiting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley slowly unwound the towel around his hair, tossing the wet strands back. The towel he miracled back into the cupboard, clean and fresh for next time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reached into the oven and pulled out his plate of food, lightly steaming, the perfect temperature. The table was already set with a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Settling into his chair, he poured the first glass of wine, reached for his knife and fork and –</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Buzz-buzz.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley stared at the ceiling as the mobile next to him vibrated across the table. He could ignore it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, that was one thing he could never do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Putting down his knife, he lifted it to his ear. “The Ritz London, reservations. How can I help you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Crowley! I know that’s you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then why do you always assume I </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t?”</span>
  </em>
  <span> He poked at the vegetables with his fork.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale tutted and mumbled, but didn’t seem about to say anything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just tell me. How did it go?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It turns out, I was rather, er, optimistic about the condition and, ah, functionality of the bathtub.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He cringed at that, but at least Aziraphale sounded embarrassed, not upset. “Did any books get ruined?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Heavens, no!” The angel scoffed. “Just the carpet, but it was hardly an antique, just some fancy modern thing I picked up in the nineteen-twenties.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley almost smiled at that, but held it back, in case any of the plants were watching. That flowering kalanchoe was certainly starting to get ideas. “Honestly, Angel, you do sound better.” The note of panic that had filled their last two conversations had apparently been downgraded to his usual fussiness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do? Oh. Do I?” He sounded almost disappointed. “I suppose, that is, I felt a bit better for it, certainly, but I’m still not entirely back in tip-top shape, you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aren’t you?” Crowley gave up on the fork and reached for the wine instead. “Look. You have your cooking. That lasted you five weeks already. Have you found an instrument to practise yet?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I couldn’t remember how the lyre worked so…I…I miracled up a harmonica.” When Crowley didn’t say anything, he continued in a rushed voice, “Well, it was the only thing I could think of –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Violin, Angel. Maybe a cello. Piano if you want to clear the space for it.” He rubbed his eye in disbelief. What had gotten </span>
  <em>
    <span>into</span>
  </em>
  <span> Aziraphale? “But, fine. Your </span>
  <em>
    <span>harmonica</span>
  </em>
  <span> should keep you busy for a few days. Once you’ve figured out the bathtub you can bring the books in there with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose that’s true…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And, what else was on your list? Probably don’t want to do candles in the shop, but you can set up a desk and make a whole illuminated manuscript of your favorite book. That should fill </span>
  <em>
    <span>months</span>
  </em>
  <span> of time if you do it properly. It sounds like you’re going to be fine while I sleep.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I don’t…I…I didn’t think…”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“What,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Angel?” He wrestled with the lump rising in his throat. “What is it that has you so…so </span>
  <em>
    <span>this?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I…I’d rather hoped you…weren’t going to go to sleep after all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley surged to his feet, pacing across the kitchen. “Now why on </span>
  <em>
    <span>Earth</span>
  </em>
  <span> would you think that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I just thought,” and now his nervousness gave way to indignation, “that since I am having a bit of an existential crisis here it would be, well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>selfish</span>
  </em>
  <span> of you to –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Selfish? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Me?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are a demon, after all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, that is </span>
  <em>
    <span>rich</span>
  </em>
  <span> coming from you. And as for your ‘crisis’ – you’re barely even </span>
  <em>
    <span>bored,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Aziraphale. You’re a bit restless. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m</span>
  </em>
  <span> bored. I’m going </span>
  <em>
    <span>mad</span>
  </em>
  <span> over here. Can you understand that?” Something he’d been holding back finally broke loose. “I don’t have a secret cooking section, I don’t have friendly neighborhood burglars breaking in for a chat, and I can’t…</span>
  <em>
    <span>lose myself</span>
  </em>
  <span> in a hobby the way you can. I need something new practically every day and it’s been </span>
  <em>
    <span>five bloody weeks.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I don’t see how –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And </span>
  <em>
    <span>you.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Do you know how long I waited for you to call? Days and days standing by the phone while you made bread and cake and never even thought about me!” Crowley slammed his fist against the wall, then rested his head against it. “I’m trying, Aziraphale,” he went on in a softer voice. “I’m trying </span>
  <em>
    <span>very hard</span>
  </em>
  <span> not to go too fast, I swear, but it’s like we’re standing still and I just…I can’t do that right now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I promise,” Crowley continued, “I’m not giving up. You take as long as you need, but I…I can’t keep </span>
  <em>
    <span>waiting</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>thinking about waiting</span>
  </em>
  <span> while there’s nothing else to </span>
  <em>
    <span>do.</span>
  </em>
  <span> I need to get away from it for a bit, and the only way I can do that is if I’m asleep.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you…really believe I don’t think about you?” Aziraphale’s voice was soft, and Crowley knew he was sinking into his chair. “That you aren’t the only thing on my mind? I’ve been moving constantly for five weeks, because every time I pause, you’re there. You’re everywhere.” His voice quavered. “I’m so </span>
  <em>
    <span>tired</span>
  </em>
  <span> of being alone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley leaned back against the wall, let himself slide down. “You don’t have to be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was that catch again, the rushed intake of breath. “No, Crowley. The </span>
  <em>
    <span>rules.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“No one will see me. You know I can’t get anyone sick. I won’t be in the way, I’ll just sit on the sofa and let you get on with whatever you’re doing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t. I just – I </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Crowley.” One more shaky breath. “Goodnight, dear.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The line went dead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley sat on the floor, while on the table his dinner went cold.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>...at which point I realized Crowley was a bit more upset than intended, and this fic was going to be double its planned length. Stay tuned for chapter two, by bedtime EST!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>After their latest fight, Aziraphale and Crowley attempt to get through Lockdown on their own...</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sorry for the delay! Part 2, ready to go~!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Aziraphale placed the handset back in the cradle with trembling hands and stared at it for a long moment. His lungs had quite forgotten how to breathe, and his heart seemed to have frozen mid-beat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It all made sense now. Even doing </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he was still ruining it. As he really should have expected. What else was Aziraphale good at, except making a mess of things?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Time apart. That was what they needed. Crowley could have his peace of mind and Aziraphale…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The silence of the bookshop was shattered by the ring of the telephone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale’s heart restarted, going from still to near-bursting in a matter of seconds. Without pausing to think, he lifted the handset and immediately slammed it down again, then bent over and tore the cord out of the wall. There. That should remove any temptation to –</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With another shriek, the second telephone began to ring, across the shop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The second call rang for almost ninety seconds before suddenly disconnecting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley tossed his mobile, letting it slide and skitter across the floor, coming to rest against a distant wall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alright. Fine. Aziraphale didn’t want to talk. He’d made that clear, hadn’t he? Rejecting Crowley’s offer, hanging up the phone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Except that it </span>
  <em>
    <span>hadn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>been clear. Nothing was clear, except for the gutted feeling in his stomach, the aching shiver starting in his bones.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You’re everywhere,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Azirapahle had said, and what had that been about? Did he really miss Crowley that much? And if he did, why wouldn’t he just </span>
  <em>
    <span>let Crowley come over?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley raked his hands through his hair, all the calm he’d generated from a day of relaxation routines shattered. When he realised he was rocking in place, he stood up, pacing across the kitchen floor; it was a big, open room, but he felt trapped anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A third call. Instead of ringing, it went straight to a three-note tone, followed by: </span>
  <em>
    <span>The number you have dialled has not been recognised. Please check and try again.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>recognised?</span>
  </em>
  <span> What was wrong with Aziraphale’s telephones?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Every instinct screamed that he had to go to Soho immediately. Forget the lockdown, forget speed limits, forget </span>
  <em>
    <span>gravity</span>
  </em>
  <span> if he had to. Something had happened to Aziraphale…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley tripped over a chair and kicked it, as hard as he could.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He</span>
  </em>
  <span> was what had happened to Aziraphale. What was he thinking? Saying those things. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s like we’re standing still. I can’t do that right now.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He’d promised – he’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>sworn</span>
  </em>
  <span> he would never pressure Aziraphale into anything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How could he do that? How could he act like being friends was some kind of bloody </span>
  <em>
    <span>inconvenience?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Like spending the day talking over the phone was a </span>
  <em>
    <span>punishment?</span>
  </em>
  <span> How many times, in six thousand years, had he </span>
  <em>
    <span>wished </span>
  </em>
  <span>for Aziraphale to contact him just to talk, no business or obligations, and now that it finally happened…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He forced himself to calm down. Pick up the chair and sit. It wasn’t easy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If only Crowley could see Aziraphale’s face, look in his eyes. Then he’d know the angel was alright. Then he’d be alright himself. He just had to </span>
  <em>
    <span>know.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, thinking of looking into Aziraphale’s eyes raised the question of reaching out. Resting a hand on his cheek, running fingers through that downy snow-white hair. Drawing him close against Crowley’s heart, wrapping them both in wings black as the night sky…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> was going too fast. Thoughts like that were exactly why Aziraphale didn’t want to be alone with him, weren’t they? Crowley needed to learn how to control himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a heavy sigh, he picked up his knife and fork and started unenthusiastically on his dinner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something caught his eye: a flash of green, a shiver through the leaves of the plants just visible around the corner. Crowley scowled at them. “What are you lot looking at?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a few moments of studying his list, Aziraphale decided to begin with music. Simple enough. There were several books on music in the shop, and he found two that included sections on the harmonica. Both assured him it was one of the simplest instruments to learn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well. Perhaps he </span>
  <em>
    <span>should</span>
  </em>
  <span> have gone with something more challenging. After all, he’d taught himself to bake in only a few days. But never mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One more quick consultation of his books, then he lifted the metal bar to his mouth and blew.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>HREEEEEEEEOOOOORRRR</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good </span>
  <em>
    <span>lord!”</span>
  </em>
  <span> He dropped the offending object on the ground, ears still reeling from the discordant assault. “That can’t possibly be right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He scanned the first book, a few neat rows of text under the diagram of a harmonica. “To make a C, blow through hole one…four…seven…or ten?” He tilted his head, then looked at the other book. “C-E-G-C-E-G…seems simple enough. Where are the other four notes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale studied the images, then looked at the instrument in his hand again. “For an A, draw your breath…must be down here…through hole six…or ten? And for B, draw through…three…and seven? What sort of sense does that make? Why are there only two A’s?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tried paging through one book, then the other, but there was little more to tell. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Bending</span>
  </em>
  <span> the harmonica? How am I meant to…? No, no one thing at a time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He studied the little holes one last time, then lifted it carefully to his lips, trying to delicately blow through only one at a time.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>HREEEE</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>HWWAAA</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>HOOOOOOH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He frowned. The works of Wagner and Tchaikovsky it was not. He glanced at the instructions, hoping for more clarity, skipping past the paragraphs on the positioning of the hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“…to play a single clear note. Ah, yes! That’s what I need.” He scanned the section. “Push your lips out…almost as if…trying to…kiss someone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, Aziraphale turned his eyes to the harmonica, lying innocently in his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A whole host of images he had been trying very, very hard to ignore scrambled at the back of his mind, desperate for attention. None of them involved his lips pressing against the cold metal of a harmonica.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breath catching in his throat, Aziraphale gathered up the books, the instrument, the handful of notes he’d scribbled before miracling it into existence. He marched across the shop, flung open the back door, and dumped them all in the alley.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, for good measure, he picked up the harmonica and threw it down the street, listened to it clatter across the cobblestones.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right.” He slammed the door and returned to his list. “What’s next? Oh. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Embroidery.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley didn’t enjoy his dinner, not like he’d hoped, but it did leave him feeling pleasantly full.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Already, some reptilian instinct to stretch out on a warm rock for some restful digestion stirred in his mind. His body was absolutely ready to slide between the silk sheets, sink into the mattress and not move for </span>
  <em>
    <span>months.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Unfortunately, his mind still refused.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dressed in his blackest silk pyjamas, Crowley sat on the side of the bed, playing with his mobile. He called Aziraphale – still disconnected – then he checked the news – still depressing. Aziraphale again. News again. Instead of the peaceful cloud brought about by a bath and a good meal, his thoughts were a raging storm, pulling his attention every direction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t dark yet – it was barely early afternoon, which was ridiculous, this day had clearly lasted at least five months already – but if he had to spend another moment alone with his thoughts, he was going to scream.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The three-note tone sounded from his mobile. </span>
  <em>
    <span>The number you have dialled has not been recognised…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right. Enough of that.” He slapped the phone down on his bedside table and crawled under the sheets – smooth as water, soft as a promise – and pulled the heavy quilt over him. He sank into the embrace of the bed, closing his eyes, letting the warmth take him –</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hang on, was his mobile set to ring or vibrate? Crowley quickly sat up snatching it again. He should probably set it to both. Aziraphale would call as soon as he’d sorted out…whatever was going on…and Crowley didn’t want to miss that. And while he was at it, one more call wouldn’t hurt.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The number you have dialled –</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I said </span>
  <em>
    <span>enough of that.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> What was it going to take? Aziraphale needed space, and Crowley was supposed to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span> at giving him what he wanted. They’d argued before. It wasn’t the end of the world.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For Someone’s sake, they’d argued </span>
  <em>
    <span>at</span>
  </em>
  <span> the end of the world, and it hadn’t been the end of the world.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He closed his eyes again, shifting around across the pillows, trying to find a comfortable angle. He pulled the quilt over his head, even though the bedroom was already sufficiently dark. Then he got hot and kicked it off. Grabbed a pillow and wrapped his arms around it, but his neck didn’t feel right, so he crammed it back under his head again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was no good. He couldn’t get comfortable. He couldn’t get that tension out from between his shoulders. His mind buzzed every moment with thoughts, with worries, with that desperate undeniable need to </span>
  <em>
    <span>do something.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Anything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But there was nothing to do. Just an endless barrage of energy and no place for it to go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He jumped out of bed and walked around it, tugging the blanket straight again, fluffing the pillows back up to hotel-quality levels. Took a moment to adjust the light-blocking curtains, checking for any stray photons that might invade his space. Forced his mind to focus on just one thing at a time: the feel of the fabric, the way it slipped between his fingers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When his mind was calmer, he slid back into bed. Shut his eyes and tried to focus on something simple and rhythmic. Like the thrum of the Bentley’s engine through his legs and seat. Or the sound of waves at the beach. Or the way Aziraphale’s voice shook when he laughed, the real genuine laugh, not that false one he used when he’d been caught at something he wasn’t supposed to be doing. Though that one had its charm, too, as well as the big toothy grin, stretched a bit too far, any time he thought he was getting away with a lie that wouldn’t have fooled a child –</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rrrrgh!” Crowley sat up. “What the Heaven is wrong with me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He checked his phone. No messages. It had been…three minutes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Halfway through calling Aziraphale, he slammed the mobile down again. “Stop it, just stop.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulled himself to the opposite side of the bed, curling up in the corner, as far as he could get from the offending device.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then he tried stretching out, sprawling across the middle of the mattress.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Flipping around, head down at the footboard, to see if it helped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pressing against the wall, on the wall, climbing up the wall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Settling into the corner, where it met the ceiling, tucking in like a serpent in a burrow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stretching across the ceiling, clinging to it like a gecko.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing. Everywhere he went his mind still raced.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Blast it.” He released the ceiling, dropping onto the bed with a soft </span>
  <em>
    <span>thump.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He tried just letting his limbs settle and drifting off there, but his heart wasn’t in it, certainly not his brain. Sitting up again, Crowley looked back through the door towards the kitchen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tea. That’s what I need. Cup of tea.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some nice hot chamomile would do the trick. He kept a few caddies of loose-leaf tea, mostly fancy herbal ones, in the back of the cupboard, hidden behind jars of exotic coffee beans and tooth-achingly bitter tea bags. He had a certain reputation to maintain, after all, even if only to himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he waited for the kettle to boil, his fingers started tapping on the mobile. It had been almost ten minutes. Perhaps one more call…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale couldn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>quite</span>
  </em>
  <span> remember the different embroidery stitches, but he had a rough idea what they were supposed to look like. And he firmly decided after the music books had so thoroughly betrayed him, he would not consult the needlepoint texts at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He did, however, remember many countless hours spent stitching flowers on handkerchiefs while talking with young ladies, influencing them into careers in writing, or science, or simply being a bit more ambitious in their marriage aspirations than their parents expected. The familial politics of the Regency had been a fascinating world to lose himself in. It seemed the perfect cure to whatever ailed him today.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Settling his glasses on the end of his nose, Aziraphale stretched the cotton inside a bamboo hoop, selected some nice bright colours for the flowers, and started forming the petals, each one three quick and simple stitches.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It went wrong almost immediately. The petals seemed to grow every which way, with no thought of joining in the centre. The stitches refused to line up, leaving gaps here and bunching up too tightly there. Within five minutes he had produced something that looked more like an angry snowball.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a heavy sigh, he pulled the threads free, attacking them with scissors, leaving the snipped-off ends to litter the floor at his feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fine. Something simpler. A bird perhaps. He lifted a pencil and quickly sketched one out – round shape, sharp beak. No points for realism, he supposed, but at least it looked like a chipper little thing. A simple backstitch along the lines he’d already drawn, then he could try to remember how to fill it in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But once again his fingers worked against him. The stitches refused to lay flat, some came out enormous, and others pulled so tight the fabric wrinkled and twisted, puckering up…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He ripped the thread out in frustration, tearing the cotton in the process.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well. Never mind </span>
  <em>
    <span>that.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He miracled up a piece of coarse linen, warp and weft easy to see. He would simply have to start with creating simple curved lines until he could remember how to stitch properly. He knotted the end of the long black floss, pulled needle and thread through a likely spot in the fabric, and set to work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He traced the abstract curve of a line, this way and that across the linen. Slowly, the stitches began to fall into some semblance of order, and by the time the twisted line approached the bottom of the hoop, it appeared smooth and even, a flowing procession of near-identical stitches.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiled a bit, as his fingers finally began to remember their task. Why, it was almost relaxing! His mind could drift, tied only to reality by the movement of the perfectly placed needle, coming in and out of the cloth with just a twist of the wrist. The black line began to curl back in on itself, doubling up, as if to make a closed figure. What fun! Did it look like anything? Aziraphale supposed it could be…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A coiled serpent, black against a white cloth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The weight of the embroidery hoop ensured that the linen flew nearly as far up the alley as the harmonica had.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley wandered through the flat, sipping his herbal infusion. Chamomile and vanilla and mint and valerian. He hadn’t looked too closely at the labels, just dug through the containers for a few leaves of anything claiming to help with sleep or cure insomnia.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Human herbal remedies were a funny thing. Sometimes they seemed to have everything figured out, then the next they shot off, trying to use willow bark to cure cancer or St John’s Wort for just about anything that might trouble you. Not trusting what they’d already learned, looking for a quick cure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh. St. John’s Wort. That might actually help right now. Did he have any? He’d seen some at Aziraphale’s shop, tucked behind the Earl Grey and the cocoa mix –</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley set his cup down and clawed at his hair. He could suddenly picture it, the two of them, sitting over cups of tea, talking, voices hushed. Aziraphale’s eyes would be worried, he always worried when there was something big going on and they couldn’t interfere. He’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>say</span>
  </em>
  <span> that it was all part of the Plan, but you couldn’t deny that tension. And if Crowley took his glasses off, Aziraphale would see he wasn’t alone in that –</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No!” Crowley slapped a hand against his forehead, trying to jar his thoughts in another direction. The other hand had already dipped into the pocket of his robe, pulling out the mobile again.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The number you have dialled has not been recognised…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He swore, loudly and in five languages.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pointless. All this worry was </span>
  <em>
    <span>pointless. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He knew perfectly well he could as easily get the moon to come down for a nice chat as he could get Aziraphale to talk when he didn’t want to. He was probably already lost in his baking, making crepes and pies and all sorts of sugary disasters, while Crowley fretted and worried and made himself sick.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was exactly what he’d said he </span>
  <em>
    <span>wouldn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley marched into the study and dropped his mobile on the desk. The blank screen stared up at him, accusing, enticing. He slapped the ansaphone on top of it. “Stay there, and don’t…</span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He started to walk away, but the mobile was still watching him. He could feel it, burning a hole in the back of his mind. Crowley grabbed his astronomy book, lying near the window from a night of failed stargazing a week before, and slammed that over the ansaphone. Then he grabbed the falcon sculpture in the corner and put it on top of </span>
  <em>
    <span>that. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Fetched a towel and draped it across the whole mess.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perfect.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley stretched languidly, letting each muscle pull and each joint pop. It was a relief, really, putting the temptation out of reach, and he didn’t fail to see the irony in that. But he felt lighter as he walked away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tea had cooled enough for him to down it in one gulp. Already, he could feel just a hint of heaviness in his mind, as the concoction of sleep aids began to take effect. Maybe humans had the right idea, constantly testing the bounds of what they knew. After all, you could have two teas next to each other on the shelf for just </span>
  <em>
    <span>ages</span>
  </em>
  <span> and never realise they were better together until you tried it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Leaving the mug in the sink, he ambled back towards the bedroom, ready to let his mind go. Dream about warm gardens or long drives or absolutely anything except Aziraphale and whatever he might be getting up to now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His mind immediately offered a hundred unlikely – and increasingly unpleasant – possibilities.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, bless it.” Crowley reached into the pocket of his robe, where his mobile was already waiting for him, and tried calling one more time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Twenty-three bundles of bills, receipts and other documentation sat, meticulously organised around Aziraphale’s desk. Each bundle was categorised, itemised, and carefully labeled to track every penny that went in or out of this shop. It was really a sort of delightful puzzle, and there was nothing quite like switching on his trusty old computer and tapping in the information for the latest quarter, watching the little columns balance out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It really was a top-notch way to spend an afternoon. Even better, there was almost no way </span>
  <em>
    <span>other </span>
  </em>
  <span>thoughts could work themselves into such a simple task. There was no ambiguity in taxes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well. Apart from Crowley’s suggestion that he count the Bentley as official business transportation and try to claim it as a zero-emissions vehicle for the tax credit. Which was patently absurd, since Crowley almost never did deliveries even when he asked, and that would imply that Crowley was some sort of </span>
  <em>
    <span>employee </span>
  </em>
  <span>of the shop and…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale blinked worriedly behind his glasses. Why on earth had his mind decided to revisit </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>old argument? It was a subject </span>
  <em>
    <span>long </span>
  </em>
  <span>since settled, and rather an absurd one in any case.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never mind that,” he told himself firmly. “That’s a tax credit question, and those come last. Income first, then expenses, then deductions.” The process had hardly changed in two hundred years.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, </span>
  <em>
    <span>deductions</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>expenses </span>
  </em>
  <span>brought up another issue. He’d always felt that their dinners to discuss the Arrangement counted as working lunches, and ought to be claimed. It was not, strictly speaking, </span>
  <em>
    <span>bookshop </span>
  </em>
  <span>business, but he felt they fit into the spirit of the thing.</span>
</p><p><span>It had never really mattered, just a meal or two every few years. But he’d really fallen into the habit of claiming all their official/unofficial meetups during what he now called </span><em><span>the</span></em> <em><span>Warlock Years,</span></em><span> and goodness, the dinners since last August had certainly added up. Many of them at the finest dining establishments in London. Not all were </span><em><span>strictly</span></em><span> about business, though they had discussed several times their plans regarding interference in human lives or the avoidance of such. Surely that counted?</span></p><p>
  <span>Perhaps it would be best to review their dinner receipts and sort them by topic of conversation…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh. Oh, no, that was dangerous ground indeed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right. Well.” Aziraphale wet his lips, moving the bundle marked </span>
  <em>
    <span>dining</span>
  </em>
  <span> as far from him as he could. “Clearly I should start with my </span>
  <em>
    <span>personal</span>
  </em>
  <span> taxes and…work my way up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He vastly preferred the business taxes. Apart from the question of working lunches, everything to come in and out of AZ Fell’s was tracked and documented, down to the last paperclip (which he rarely used). Personal taxes were trickier, as full honesty there tended to make the nice men at the revenue service anxious. But needs must when…yes. Needs must.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulled out his identification card to remind himself what name and birthdate he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>supposed</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be using, and carefully filled that in. Good. Now just a series of check boxes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Employment status.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He ran a small business, carefully documented, with no employees. Oh, and he’d been employed full-time as a gardener, so he’d have to remember to file Brother Francis’s taxes. And naturally there was the per diem charge for his children’s birthday entertainment business. Had he used a separate identity for that one? It was only a few hundred pounds, but really, all things should be accounted for.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then, of course, he’d had rather a large change in employment, hadn’t he? Nothing the revenue department could track, of course. There wasn’t really a checkbox for whether or not one was an agent of the divine forces. Perhaps that should be considered a sort of hobby? But in a sense it </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> affect his income that he was no longer in Heaven’s employ. After all, his access to miracles and money was on somewhat shakier ground these days. How did he explain that?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, it has been rather a trying year,” he murmured, trying to keep his spirits up as he scanned down the page. “Perhaps I should just move on to…”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Were you in a partnership?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale’s heart skipped a beat. “Well, that seems rather a forward question,” he snapped at the form. “Partnership is a very ambiguous term, I’ll have you know, and some beings prefer not to label their relationships!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A certain demon, for instance, was almost frustratingly reluctant to use </span>
  <em>
    <span>any</span>
  </em>
  <span> term which, of course, was perfectly acceptable, he had no desire to fence Crowley into his idea of what a relationship should be. But how was Aziraphale supposed to behave appropriately without some guideline, without clearly defined rules for their stage of…of…</span>
  <em>
    <span>whatever </span>
  </em>
  <span>they were? Crowley had the </span>
  <em>
    <span>gall</span>
  </em>
  <span> to suggest Aziraphale was the one standing still, but how was he supposed to progress without knowing where they were going?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As for what Aziraphale wanted…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Several possible scenarios spun out in his mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The two of them sitting in leather armchairs in the reading parlor of a gentlemen’s club, whispering gossip about the other members between sips of brandy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A tiny cottage in the south, Aziraphale setting out a plate of his latest fresh-baked pastries while Crowley hissed threats to the rose bushes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley’s flat, settled on top of the bookshop, where Aziraphale could run up the stairs several times a day, popping in to surprise him with a new story, a new idea, a new joke about his customers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or a home, far in the north, like an old castle, where Crowley lived alone but every weekend, like clockwork, the Bentley would appear across the road from the shop, and that rush of anticipation, sweetened by their time apart, as they drove north together to lay out under the aurora…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t have them all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t know which he wanted, which Crowley wanted, which was best, which was </span>
  <em>
    <span>right.</span>
  </em>
  <span> It was too many questions, too much ambiguity, and really the revenue department had no business trying to make him choose out of the blue like that. It was almost as bad as that question on marriage allowance!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, dear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another possibility played out in his mind, this one monumentally unlikely. Where would they even find that many people to sit in the audience? Was it possible to build a cake with so many layers? Who would even have the </span>
  <em>
    <span>authority </span>
  </em>
  <span>to perform a ceremony for two supernatural beings? And Crowley’s dress…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, technically it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>quite</span>
  </em>
  <span> unlikely, bordering on physically impossible, but it suited him. It suited him very much. As for Aziraphale’s own outfit…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop it, please, stop!” Aziraphale begged himself, stumbling to his feet. He knocked over the mug of cocoa, and the thick brown liquid spread across his desk, splashing in a wave against the computer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And now that very computer – which had served him well through many long fiscal years – exploded into sparks and smoke. With one last horrid clicking beep, it went cold.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale took several deep breaths, trying to still his racing heart. Finally, he reached across and patted the old monitor. “There, there old girl. You’ll be fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And she was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It would take a more concentrated miracle to clear up the paperwork, removing the cocoa without ruining the words. It was certainly one way to fill an afternoon, but he didn’t have the heart for it now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale pulled off his glasses and tossed them aside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was hopeless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Five weeks he’d been burrowed into this shop, escaping his doubts, his worries, his concern for the humans, his wish to help.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d stepped out of the Ritz with such grand plans, six months ago, but in truth, he couldn’t help anyone. Didn’t even know where to begin. He couldn’t even escape his own mind. The blasted thing followed him wherever he went.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale found himself walking, in a daze, back to the piles upon piles of pastries, covering every table, every countertop, every shelf in that corner of the shop. A testament to the little escape he’d found, an hour at a time, for a little while. Until the silence had gotten to him, until he’d convinced himself that one quick call wouldn’t hurt…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thought again of the many scenarios that had floated through his mind all day. They were all too perfect – nothing ever went perfectly, not where Aziraphale was involved, certainly never anything involving him and Crowley at the same time. He needed to be realistic. He needed to stop letting his mind run off after every foolish idea, every ridiculous notion that blundered through.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He needed…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He needed…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He needed Crowley. And that was the one thing he couldn’t have.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley sat on the edge of his bed again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d spent a few hours trying to salvage the last bits of his routine. Done his hair, groomed his wings. Rearranged the plants to ensure they would get enough light. All going through the motions at this point, really. There was nothing else to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Almost nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He picked up the mobile again, calling one last time.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The number you have dialled has not been recognised. Please check and try again. The number you have dialled has not been recognised. Please check and try again. The number you have dialled has not been recognised. Please check and try again.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Another tone, and the line fell dead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aziraphale,” his voice sounded loud in the silence. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He switched the mobile off entirely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley lay back, closed his eyes. His mind was still racing, still filled with too many thoughts to hold even one for long.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he forced it to stop. Decreased his heartbeat as low as it could while sustaining this body. Set his breathing to a slow, steady rhythm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he couldn’t fall asleep normally, it was always possible to trick the body. He counted his breaths and slowly…slowly…drifted off…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sushi.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last stray thought drifting across his mind made him sit bolt upright.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sushi. Why didn’t I think – stupid, stupid demon!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His mobile was in his hand – switched back on – before his feet even hit the floor, already searching local restaurants.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Desperate times called for desperate measures.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale lay on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling. All the thoughts he’d struggled to keep at bay were here now. He sifted through them, letting each fantasy play out, studied it, noted its flaws.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley wouldn’t take his hand like that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley wouldn’t say those words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale wouldn’t dance like that, not without somehow wrecking half the furniture in the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It didn’t matter. They came back, again and again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How selfish could he be? How many futures did he want to claim?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why couldn’t he just be happy with the present moment, with the way things were? Exploring the possibilities one step at a time, instead of rushing to the ending, with no moderation, no control. Racing ahead to the point where it all fell apart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could see those moments, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley, disgusted by his needy, clinging demands. Annoyed by his foolish hobbies. Impatient with his hesitance, infuriated by his reckless insensitivity. These played out, too, the end of </span>
  <em>
    <span>them,</span>
  </em>
  <span> over and over, and this time there were no flaws. Each seemed perfectly plausible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he closed his eyes, he could see Crowley sitting in the room, watching him with golden eyes. That unwavering stare asking for nothing, for everything, for more than Aziraphale could ever give and yet…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A loud crash brought Aziraphale back to the moment, startling him out of his stupor. Had a bookcase fallen over? A table collapsed under the weight of pastries? He rubbed at his eyes – why were they so wet? – and looked around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, no, everything was as it should be, not a speck of dust out of place. So what on Earth…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Again the rapping, sharp and loud, and clearly coming from the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peering around the bookcase, Aziraphale saw a young man in a mask and gloves, leaning against the glass of the door. He knocked again, narrowed eyes clearly trying to see into the dim bookshop despite the late afternoon light.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This was…this was </span>
  <em>
    <span>impossible. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Someone was </span>
  <em>
    <span>out.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Someone was </span>
  <em>
    <span>visiting his shop.</span>
  </em>
  <span> That was in no uncertain terms </span>
  <em>
    <span>against all the rules.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale leapt to his feet, hurrying over to give that young man a piece of his mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But before he had even crossed half the floor, the young man spotted him. With a wave, he set something down on the front step and walked back to his car. By the time Aziraphale had the door unlocked, he had already driven away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a long moment, Aziraphale stood with his hand on the doorknob.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>opening your own door</span>
  </em>
  <span> wasn’t against the rules. At least, he hoped it wasn’t, as he’d already done so several times today, and it seemed the only way for humans to get their garbage out to the bins. No, that was probably safe, as long as he didn’t try to go anywhere. Just take a quick look around, make sure the strange young man hadn’t caused any damage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tugged open the door a crack. Yes, a plastic bag, sitting just past the threshold.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be against some sort of rule but…well…no one appeared to be looking. Perhaps a quick glance, just to satisfy his curiosity. He pulled the bag inside and placed it in the middle of the floor, brushing it open to find –</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two plastic delivery trays of sushi. Spicy tuna, salmon, avocado, scallions – and on the back of the receipt tucked between them, a note.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>CALL ME. AJC.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now what on earth is he –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another rap at the door. Aziraphale glanced up to see a young woman, her hair pulled back. She waved a gloved hand and held up what looked rather like a pizza box. Again, she left it on the step, rushing to her car before he could ask a question.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulled the steaming box inside, lifting the lid to find: fig and goat cheese, garlic bread, and a note scrawled across the inside in black marker – </span>
  <em>
    <span>TURN ON YOURE DAM PHONE ANGLE.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d barely had time to process that before hearing yet another knock at his door. And this time as he watched, he realised at least a dozen delivery cars were circling the block.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley held a paper menu from a restaurant that claimed, rather dubiously, to have the best curry takeout in Soho.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, that’s the chicken vindaloo, lamb rogan and…what does the Vegetable Thali come with?” His lip twisted. “What do you mean </span>
  <em>
    <span>outside your delivery radius?</span>
  </em>
  <span> It’s in Soho!” He flipped back and forth through the menu. “Look, fine, whatever. Sixty percent tip, just charge it right to the card – no </span>
  <em>
    <span>sixty, </span>
  </em>
  <span>six-zero. Yes. I want all that and…and </span>
  <em>
    <span>double </span>
  </em>
  <span>samosas. And make sure it’s twenty-five minutes </span>
  <em>
    <span>exactly,</span>
  </em>
  <span> there’s going to be a bit of a crowd.” Crowley tossed aside the menu to flick through the notes scattered on the bed. “And write on the back of the receipt, er, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m not going to sleep until you talk to me,</span>
  </em>
  <span> exactly that.” He frowned harder. “Look, I’m not paying you for literary critique, just get the blessed curry there in twenty-five minutes!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hung up and sat back on his bed. There were only a few more takeout places still operating in Soho, but if he tipped well enough, he could probably get a few from Mayfair to deliver as well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right. He’d done curry…where was that place with the fancy gourmet burgers?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He almost didn’t notice his mobile vibrating, so focused was he on his task. It had been silent so long, it didn’t even really register for a moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then it did.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His fingers shook as he snatched it off the bed, nearly launching it across the room. It took three tries to hit the green button to answer the call.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Angel?”</span>
</p><p><span>“Well,” a voice huffed on the other end of the line. “You can kindly stop your army of…of </span><em><span>delivery</span></em> <em><span>minions,</span></em><span> I’m rather running out of places to put this food.”</span></p><p>
  <span>“Shut up,” snapped Crowley, pressing a trembling hand to his eye. “Are you…are you alright, Aziraphale?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m…yes, I’m quite alright. Why wouldn’t I be?” The quaver in his voice was worse than before; all the energy that had gone into his panics melted away to something soft and just a little broken. He cleared his throat, but it made no difference. “Everything over here is tip…tape…ship…shop…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will you </span>
  <em>
    <span>please</span>
  </em>
  <span> tell me what’s wrong?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why…why would anything be </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley wasn’t angry. He was too exhausted to be angry, too worn down to call it worry. “I’ve been trying to call all day. You disconnected your </span>
  <em>
    <span>phones. </span>
  </em>
  <span>What was I supposed to think?” He clenched his jaw and sank back against the pillows. “Just tell me. I’m never going to be able to sleep if you don’t say anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A pause. “If I knew what was wrong I would…” But just as abruptly, that brisk tone was back. “Ooh, just go to sleep Crowley, it’s nothing to concern yourself over. I never should have called you in the first place. You were happier not hearing from me, I’m sure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Happier?” Crowley surged to his feet. “Why the Heaven would you – No! I was not </span>
  <em>
    <span>happier. </span>
  </em>
  <span>How can you even think that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, you said you waited for me to call but…I managed to…to quite make a mess of that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know. I was there. You </span>
  <em>
    <span>always</span>
  </em>
  <span> make a mess, that’s not really a surprise, and it doesn’t mean –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A soft gasp. Blast it, he’d said the wrong thing </span>
  <em>
    <span>again,</span>
  </em>
  <span> this was so much </span>
  <em>
    <span>easier </span>
  </em>
  <span>in person.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look, no, whatever I said…Aziraphale, let me come over. We can talk properly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The rules, Crowley,” he mumbled unconvincingly. But before Crowley could scream in frustration – which he was fairly certain he’d earned – Aziraphale whispered, almost too soft to hear: “I lied to you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course you did.” Crowley tried to keep his voice even, though he sank to the corner of the bed as his legs gave out. “When in particular?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When I said…When I said I’m not miserable.” His voice broke on the end of the word. “I am. I…I mean, I didn’t think I was. Not at the time. I felt fine. Happy. Wanted to share my cakes with you. And then…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>offered</span>
  </em>
  <span> to come over.” Crowley could hear the accusation in his voice, wished it weren’t there. But something else crossed his mind. “Oh. That’s…that’s what made you…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t, Crowley. I just can’t.” He sounded utterly wretched. “I miss you, I do. I don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to sit here eating cakes and – and an endless stream of gourmet takeout by myself. And now I’m miserable. I’m making </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> miserable, and I’m making myself…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, Aziraphale.” He rushed in. “I’m…ok, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am</span>
  </em>
  <span> miserable, but you can’t blame yourself for that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who else is to blame?” Once again, Aziraphale’s voice dropped almost too low for the phone to pick up. “You said you’re tired of waiting. I am too. I just…I can’t…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Angel. Whatever’s bothering you, just say it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m lost. I – I thought without Heaven, I’d be free to do what I want, but I don’t – I can’t even decide what I want, Crowley. It’s just…it’s all too much.” A catch of breath. Or possibly a sob. “I’m not…I’m not made for this. I can’t do it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m coming over.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, you can’t. The </span>
  <em>
    <span>rules –”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Forget the rules, Angel. I’m not just going to sit here and pretend you’re not –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Crowley!” That stern tone that always meant a line that could not be crossed. It was </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ineffable </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Absolutely out of the question </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s over, Crowley. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The voice that meant he’d pushed too far. “If you step one foot outside, I swear, I will never speak to you again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right.” Crowley threw back his head. “Well then. Best not do that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In a flash of light and dark swirled together, Crowley vanished through the microphone of his mobile, leaving the device to tumble to the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale had very nearly hung up the telephone when the cord jerked in his hand, almost imperceptibly. That was his only warning before six feet of red-headed demon in black silk pyjamas burst out of the mouthpiece and landed next to his sofa.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ooh,” Crowley groaned, staggering across the carpet. “That was…how is it </span>
  <em>
    <span>worse</span>
  </em>
  <span> every time I try it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Crowley!” Aziraphale leapt to his feet. For a moment, he couldn’t speak, didn’t even know where he might begin. “You – you can’t be here!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I bloody well can.” Bent almost double, Crowley pointed vaguely in his direction. “Didn’t step out. No one saw me. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Wireless.</span>
  </em>
  <span> I need to remember not to jump through the wireless service. Ugh.” He sank onto the sofa and put his head between his knees. “I’ll be fine, just need a minute.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was…unreal, that was the only word for it. Everything seemed oddly tilted, almost discoloured, as if Aziraphale were watching this in the cinema, playing out on the screen. Then he caught a glimpse of Crowley’s eyes – bare to the world, not a sign of his glasses anywhere, golden and piercing and far too warm. The strongest panic yet bubbled up in Aziraphale, contracting his throat until he could hardly get the words out. “No! No you can’t be here, you need to leave right now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What? Why?” Crowley tilted his head back. The hair fell all about his eyes, loose curls, a look Aziraphale hadn’t seen in centuries. One of them dangled across Crowley’s vision, and Aziraphale could reach across, brush it back behind his ear. “I’ve been here a million times, Angel. It’s no different.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> different, Crowley.” He clasped his hands behind his back, twisting the guilty finger that longed to reach out. Even the thought of it ripped his breath from his lungs. “The rules…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What about the bloody rules?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There aren’t any!” And finally, </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally,</span>
  </em>
  <span> something burst free. “For six thousand years, I pushed at the edges of the rules, seeing what I could get away with, bending them without breaking them! And now, now it’s just me and there are no rules, nothing to rebel against, no systems to cheat, and I can do whatever I want!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know!” Crowley stood, hands out as if to grasp something. Aziraphale stumbled back. “You’re free, Aziraphale. We’re both free. So what…what is </span>
  <em>
    <span>stopping</span>
  </em>
  <span> you? What’s holding you back?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Absolutely nothing!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So it’s terrifying, Crowley!” His hands came around in front, as if he could hide behind them. “I’ve never had to…to really think about things this way before. And it’s just…it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>too much.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley took another step forward, so close, so very close. His hands hovered over Aziraphale’s shoulders. He could feel the heat of them. If he just leaned forward, and he would fall into Crowley’s arms, into his eyes, fall forever, and drag Crowley down with him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t need to be afraid, Angel. I’m here. Whatever happens, I’m here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale shook his head. One foot stepped back, ready to pull away, the other shifted forward. He couldn’t decide. How could he ever decide? “That only makes it worse. Look at this place!” He tried to point to the plates of cake and pie and bread on every surface, but Crowley’s eyes refused to move away, to give him any respite. “I wanted to make </span>
  <em>
    <span>one cake, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and I couldn’t decide! I just kept going! And that’s when I was </span>
  <em>
    <span>alone,</span>
  </em>
  <span> when I could </span>
  <em>
    <span>think. </span>
  </em>
  <span>But together…there are so many choices…so many possibilities and I can’t…” He took a deep breath. “I’m going to destroy us, Crowley. I’m not like you. I don’t know how to control myself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley recoiled, eyes very nearly blinking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then…that smile, the one that crept across his face a little at a time. He laughed, long and soft, and it was so very much like Eden, the first time they’d ever spoken.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It isn’t funny, Crowley!” But the demon just laughed louder, stepping closer, bringing his hands to brush gently against Aziraphale’s elbows, leaning his head forward until it rested on his shoulder. Aziraphale forced himself to stand still, to fall into the temptation before him. “Please. I have no concept of how to act outside the rules. Every choice, every decision makes me freeze in place. What if I choose wrong? What if I go too far?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You think,” Crowley whispered between chuckles. “You think you’re the one without control?” His fingers tightened, just slightly, just enough to grasp the fabric of Aziraphale’s jacket. “I thought…I really thought…you were angry at me. That...that I’d finally pushed you too hard.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, no.” His hands took Crowley’s shoulders, tipping him back, and Aziraphale forced himself to meet those eyes. “Crowley, my dear friend, I could never </span>
  <em>
    <span>truly </span>
  </em>
  <span>be angry at you for...for simply being yourself. The pushing, the tempting, that’s who you </span>
  <em>
    <span>are. </span>
  </em>
  <span>But I don’t...don’t know how to go slowly.” He shut his eyes, looking down. “If I give in I’ll...never stop myself…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aziraphale.” Another laugh. “You are the most…absurd being…in all Creation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think you’re taking this seriously.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course I’m not!” Crowley brought his forehead to rest against Aziraphale’s. “Everything you’ve said, I feel the same way. Do you think I have some secret guide for how to act? Do you think I’m not scared, every day, that I’m going to ruin this? That I’m not terrified of being alone?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course! But I don’t have to be. Neither do you. Just talk to me. Trust me.” Aziraphale bit his lip, shook his head. “Come on. What do you have to lose?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You.” His voice was little more than a squeak. “I could lose you...drive you away...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, Angel. Never.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How...how can you be sure?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His head tipped up to rest his lips by Aziraphale’s hair. “You know how.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale’s heart swelled and he let himself fall, collapsing into Crowley’s arms, against his chest, into an embrace that held him together even as he nearly shook himself apart. Two long arms wrapped around him, one hand burying itself in his hair, while his fingers twisted into the silk of Crowley’s pyjamas.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They stood like that for a long time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m, er,” Aziraphale finally broke the silence. “I’m not actually sure when I’m supposed to let go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me neither,” said Crowley. “We could just keep doing this. Long as you want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know what I want. Not now…not in a year…not at all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me neither. Told you, we’ll figure it out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tried to take a breath, but it wouldn’t come. “Now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now, next month, a decade from now...however long it takes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale sobbed, and found his breath catching in his chest, the panic rising up. Suddenly it was too close, the arms too tight. “Crowley! I can’t - breathe!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley quickly pulled back, guiding him over to the sofa. Legs trembling, Aziraphale sank into the cushion while Crowley knelt in front of him, a hand on his knees. It was warm, gentle, and oddly frightening. But the sort of frightening he could get used to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s alright, Angel. Take as long as you need.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, that’s…that’s rather the problem.” He cleared his throat. “I…I don’t know what I need. I’m having a hard time thinking at all just now. I’d thought I was making some progress, and somehow once the lockdown started, everything got so much </span>
  <em>
    <span>worse.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I told you, I can stay. We can talk, not talk, your choice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, my dear…” He looked up, knowing the pain was all over his face. “I want that. It’s just...the idea of you here…sort of…indefinitely…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley nodded. “Alright. Slowly then. Little at a time. You tell me when it’s too much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think it’s been too much for several days now,” he said, wiping his eye.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then I’ll…I’ll go.” The hand pulled away from his knee, a relief and a disappointment. Crowley still crouched there, before the sofa, studying Aziraphale’s face. “You look exhausted, Angel.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m…I’m so tired of being in my own mind. I suppose I know how you feel. Wanting to go to sleep until everything is better.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, that works if what you’re sleeping through is, like, an annoying political climate. Or a particularly boring decade. But when the thing you’re trying to get away from is yourself…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know. I’ll still be here.” Aziraphale rubbed his hands at his eyes. “Sooner or later, I’m going to need to…to make some decisions…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But not today. We’ll talk. In July.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” Aziraphale’s stomach twisted. “You’re…still going to sleep?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think it’s best,” Crowley said, folding his hands so that they didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>quite</span>
  </em>
  <span> brush Aziraphale’s trousers. “You need time to think, don’t you? No pressure, no obligation.” He glanced up with a smile. “I promise. It’s not about you. I just…I need time, too. In my way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can sleep here,” Aziraphale offered, and felt his heart accelerate just at the words. “I-I had a bed put in. But I-I-I never had the-the-the courage to-to ask—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley stared at him, and it was as terrifying as in Aziraphale’s imagination, that inescapable golden gaze, searching, reading every fear, every desire, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> asking for anything, no demands, no expectations, and somehow that was </span>
  <em>
    <span>so much worse…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Next time,” he whispered, running a gentle finger across Aziraphale’s cheek. “I promise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t Crowley’s usual relaxation routine, but three bottles of wine and a slice from each of several dozen cakes had him feeling relaxed and lethargic again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hadn’t stayed long after their talk, just long enough for Aziraphale to pack him an enormous picnic basket. He’d found tucked among the pastries a few old journals on gardening, one of Aziraphale’s favourite books, and an antique photograph in a frame: Aziraphale standing in front of the shop, hand on a stack of books. It looked like the 1880s or 90s.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley flipped through the books idly while he ate, not forcing his mind to concentrate as it started to drift.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He put the picture on his bedside table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, just as dawn began to light up his windows, he crawled under the blankets and closed his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The mobile phone buzzed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yuh?” He held it to his face, not even opening his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello. It’s me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know, Angel. Feeling better?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A bit. I’m afraid I was…rather in a state last night, and I didn’t want you to…to…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To go to sleep imagining you like that?” Crowley shifted onto his side and cracked an eye open to look at the photograph. “Don’t worry about that. Really.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh. Er. Good. I think.” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “I, ah, I took your advice. I’m going to try a violin this time. Miracled one up last night. Got the music books back out of the alley.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do I want to ask?” Crowley slid back out of bed padding across the floor to the closet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps not. I expect I’ll be quite good in two months, though, so you should look forward to a thrilling private concert.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Quite good? The way you’re quite good at magic tricks?” Crowley rummaged around one-handed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh. Well. We can’t expect </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> level of quality in only a few months. No, don’t set your expectations too high, I’m afraid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aziraphale,” he found what he was looking for and tucked it under his elbow. “I’m sure you’ll be brilliant.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right. Of course.” And in a much softer, uncertain voice, “Thank you. For…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For being my usual amazing self? No need to thank me.” Crowley crossed back to the bed, tossing the bright white pillow on top. “Now, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am</span>
  </em>
  <span> going to sleep. But if you need anything – anything at all – you call, right? I’ll answer. Always do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I…yes, I will. But I hope it doesn’t come to that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know. And if they…you know…lift the restrictions, you can…” Crowley cleared his throat. “You can come over here. If you need a change of scenery. Just don’t…don’t come into the bedroom unless…” He scratched at his hair, not even sure what he’d been planning to say. “Unless you…need to wake me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t.” A long pause, not as awkward as before. “Have…have a good rest, Crowley.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Always.” He sat down on the edge of the bed, trying to decide if there was anything else to say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Until July then?” Aziraphale prompted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” He sighed. “Good night, Angel.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley placed the mobile next to Aziraphale’s photograph, checking the alarm was set for the morning of 1 July. Settled under his blanket. Grabbed the white pillow and wrapped his arms around it tight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And drifted off, dreaming of other things that were soft and white.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I almost ended it there, but there's a nice little epilogue that will be along in a moment...<br/>(Thanks to both Ilikestopwatches and elf_on_the_shelf for some last-minute beta-reading and brit-picking!)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The thrilling conclusion: the Snake Awakens!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The shriek of the alarm pulled Crowley out of a pleasant dream, and he slapped at his phone angrily, wishing to sleep for a few more days.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah. Good. You’re up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley frantically scrambled upright, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. Everything seemed dark and patchy, and he almost missed the pale shape, hovering outside his door. “Zrphle,” he managed, rubbing at his face with both hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, you said </span>
  <em>
    <span>July</span>
  </em>
  <span> but I wasn’t quite sure </span>
  <em>
    <span>when</span>
  </em>
  <span> July so, I’ve been waiting for…for a bit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scraping the heel of his hand across his eyes, then his jaw, Crowley tried again. “Aziraphale. I said—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You said not to </span>
  <em>
    <span>come in</span>
  </em>
  <span> unless I was planning to wake you. And I’m not </span>
  <em>
    <span>in</span>
  </em>
  <span> the room, am I?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blinking in the dim light, Crowley had to admit that, no, Aziraphale wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>in</span>
  </em>
  <span> the bedroom, he was sitting on a kitchen chair just past the threshold, hands folded in his lap, with the patience of an angel – which meant that one foot was already tapping furiously and all signs pointed to several hours of fidgeting and huffing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bastard,” Crowley grumbled. “Have you been there since midnight?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” Abruptly, he stood up and stepped into the room. “But close enough. You’re awake now, yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nh.” The demon made no move to stand. One didn’t just </span>
  <em>
    <span>get up</span>
  </em>
  <span> lightly after a two-month nap. “Is it over? Has to be over by now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not entirely,” Aziraphale admitted. “But there have been some…changes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If the words </span>
  <em>
    <span>zombie apocalypse</span>
  </em>
  <span> are coming, I’m just going back to sleep.” He shifted backwards against the headboard, half-propped against pillows, trying to tuck the white one unobtrusively behind him. “Are the shops open yet, at least?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Some. Slowly, over the last few weeks. More to come in the next.” His fingers twisted. “Restaurants open this weekend, a few at least. I – I have made us reservations for lunch on Saturday, if that’s not too forward, at that little outdoor café you like. They were very confused as they don’t take reservations, but—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, Angel. Sounds lovely. Er. Is today…?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wednesday.” Aziraphale took a step closer. “What else? Ah, the guidelines have changed a little. One meter instead of two.” Another step. “And…and up to two households can…can gather indoors, if they follow the rules. Starting Saturday.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Saturday, huh?” Crowley tugged at the blanket, not sure if he should stand up or not. “Sounds like…we’ll have a lot to talk about. New boundaries to set.” He glanced at the clock. “Though…that’s still four days away, so why are you…?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There is one other rule change. I almost woke you up to…to ask about it but…we agreed on July.” His fingers twisted again. “And I suppose…I wanted to think it through on my own.” He coughed, turning away for a moment. “It’s…well, they’re called…</span>
  <em>
    <span>support bubbles.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley almost made a joke about inflatable support cushions, but Aziraphale seemed very troubled. “Look, Angel, you don’t…we can wait until…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Adults who…who live alone can choose another household,” he rushed on, closing his eyes. “And travel to visit them, ignore the distancing rules, even…even spend the night. And I-I-I-I-I—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That sounds…” Crowley kept his voice as even as possible. “Sounds like a big change, Aziraphale.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is.” He kept his eyes shut, fists clenched, as if afraid to see Crowley’s reaction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Crowley waited.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale stood that way for an eternity, or at least ten minutes, eyes squeezed shut, in silence that was deafening, absolute except for the thunderous beating of his heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, he opened one eye, just a crack, just enough to see Crowley’s reaction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d slid to the middle of the bed, leaving space beside him, and the blanket was folded back. “Whenever you’re ready.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Trembling, he walked across those last few steps, but couldn’t quite bring himself to touch the bed. “I’m…I’m not sure I…I don’t know what I…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I might sleep until Saturday,” Crowley said casually. “Always good to get a post-nap snooze in. Want to try? I’ll talk you through it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I…” But his throat was too tight to speak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, Aziraphale lowered himself onto the bed, shifting, stretching onto the pillows. He lay on his side, facing away from Crowley. That was easier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t want to loosen your bowtie or anything?” He shook his head, tense, shivering. “Alright.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A moment later, a warm line pressed up against his back. One hand settled on his shoulder, and a nose gently rested against the back of his head. That was all. Nothing restraining, nothing holding him here. Just warmth, and welcome and…and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Crowley.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“This work for you, Angel? You can move if you want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I – that is – Yes. It’s…good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good.” A heavy breath that tickled against him. “Close your eyes. Take a deep breath, like this.” He felt Crowley’s chest expand against him, pressing against his lungs from the back, then the breath again, rustling his hair. “Now you try.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It took three gulps before Aziraphale managed the slow breath; Crowley coaxed him to do it again and again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s right. You’ve got this, Angel. Eyes still closed? Alright, just feel the way the air comes. In…and out. Picture it flowing through you, filling your lungs, and back out again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few more breaths, and it started to feel almost </span>
  <em>
    <span>natural.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you feel tense anywhere?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everywhere,” Aziraphale admitted, and a chuckle brushed against his ear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pick one spot to start. Your chest? Your jaw? Your hands?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My back,” he said, without thinking, and in an instant the line of warmth was gone. He gasped, breaking his breathing pattern, sure he’d ruined everything, started twisting around—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, don’t worry. I’m still here. Keep breathing. When you’re ready you can – you can move back to meet me, alright? Just picture the next breath reaching all the way to your back and…let it sink in. Feel the muscles relax…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Following Crowley’s soothing directions, Aziraphale felt the anxiety leave him: his back, then his shoulders, his chest, his legs, one piece at a time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t even notice when he slid back, pressing himself against Crowley, or when he caught the hand on his arm, tugging it down to rest across his belly. There. That was better. A moment later, he felt Crowley nuzzling against the back of his shoulder. There was a catch in the demon’s breath, as if he had something to be nervous about.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thought about saying something, but for once his mind was blank, empty of any words or worries. It was...marvelous.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good night, love.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>...at which point I realized Crowley was a bit more upset than intended, and this fic was going to be double its planned length. Stay tuned for chapter two, by bedtime EST!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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